Be with us now and bless the fruits of this land, and all those who labor and rest in this place. Grant us faith to know your gracious purpose in all things, and continue your blessings to us through the bounty of your creation; through your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.
With that prayer we began our annual Rogation Day Procession at the farm of Tom Tragardh and David Cortez on Saturday, 15 May 2010. It is something that we have been doing for something like fifteen years. The congregation gathered on a misty morning, underneath the oak trees, and there we began a journey together - a journey to the earth, plants, and creatures that surrounded us, and in a way a journey into our own lives as well.
Those that gathered were a collection of Lutherans, Roman Catholics, Episcopalians, some Baptists, and some who were of no particular denomination. There were lay people, at least one bishop, and a smattering of priests and pastors. Some were dear friends from St. Francis Church in San Francisco, and some were from Incarnation Episcopal Church in Santa Rosa, some had been companions with Tom in the trials of illness, and some were neighbors who came to join in the blessing. The Spirit blew upon all of us.
As we walked along we blessed the vegetable gardens, we lifted up seed and soil and water, we went to the wild area where we prayed for deer and moles (perhaps to the chagrin of both Tom and David who battle the creatures on a daily basis). Thence to the orchard, the meadow with fir trees, and a redwood or two, into the walking garden, where we remembered our baptisms. We blessed the house and its inhabitants, and then journeyed to the rose garden for the Mass.
You might wonder why on earth we go to all this trouble. What astounds me, and this is the mystery of liturgy, is that after doing it for so many years, with small and undetectable changes, the day yet has a power and mystery all of its own. As we paused before each prayer in silence, the earth spoke to us. Breezes brushed our ears, and turkeys gobbled in the distance; there was a rush of quail, and the song of other birds. As we sang the Benedicite omnia opera, it was as if the canticle had suddenly come to life in the very songs of the animals, plants, and the very earth around us.
Most of us are city people, and the blessings of a full table come to us unappreciative of the labor of those who wrest its blessings from the earth. As we gathered that morning, Eb, a neighbor of Tom and David, handed them a photocopy from his Daily Office. The day, on the Roman Calendar, honored Saint Isadore, Spanish saint, holy man, and farmer. It was appropriate that as we honored him and thought about the men and woman who work both soil and water, laborers in the neighboring field were doing their magic for our benefit.
Tom commented to me after the service that the gathering really represents a community, a congregation, that gathers on an annual basis to walk, pray, and celebrate. He has spun together a collection of folk that are bound to one another either through their neighborhood, the church, their families, or their afflictions. And there is a memory about these things, as people recall stories either from their own lives - affected by what we have done here, or realizations about themselves and the earth; their role in creation.
As we passed by the chapel (yes, this farm has its own chapel, an oratory dedicated to Saint Fiacre) the people paused to pick up the stuff of the mass: vessels, water, wine, bread, and oil. I prepared the host by cutting out a generous cube from the pugliese baked by a local baker. The wine had come from the fields in the region, as well as the olive oil that would be used for the anointing. One associates the Eucharist with vestments, incense, prayer and song - but not so much the smell of yeast or the tannins of the wine. Here in the mass we were to celebrate the gifts of the earth as well.
There is a new tradition at these celebrations, and that is the tradition of anointing with oil and laying on hands with prayers for healing. I knew who would want to be blessed, for these had come here in the past for such an anointing. Some were dealing with the difficulties of old age, some with breast cancer, and not a few with the slow healing that comes after surgery for an acoustic neuroma. I was moved when one of these survivors, after her anointing, grabbed the hand of a recent patient, and slowly led him forward to be signed with oil, hands laid on, and surrounded with prayer. Equally moving were the clergy who presented themselves for blessing and anointing. We were all a community of healing - for the earth, for ourselves, and for others.
The Orthodox have a wonderful tradition, having cut the host from a loaf, after the mass the remaining bread is then offered to everyone so that all might feast at the Eucharist. So it was that we feasted as we walked down the hill after the Mass to enjoy the bounty at Tom and David's table so beautifully aided by their friend Erna who comes each year from Phoenix. The community had gathered, paused, journeyed, prayed, and then feasted. And just as quickly it dispersed - like seeds on the wind.
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